


What I've become, it wasn't my design

by givebackmylifecas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Berlin lives, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: Andrés knows a lot of things about Martín. He knows how he takes his coffee, his favourite cologne, that he likes to watch Bridget Jones when he’s sick, that he smokes menthols when he’s stressed but pretends not to, that he says his favourite band is Queen but his real favourite is Spandau Ballet. And also that he doesn’t speak about his father.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 29
Kudos: 195





	What I've become, it wasn't my design

**Author's Note:**

> angsting again with this one and i am only moderately sorry  
> TWs for homophobic language, past child abuse (non-graphic) and a one-sentence imagined revenge scenario which is kind of... gross?  
> Fic title from the Cranberries' song "Ode To My Family"

Andrés knows a lot of things about Martín. He knows how he takes his coffee, his favourite cologne, that he likes to watch Bridget Jones when he’s sick, that he smokes menthols when he’s stressed but pretends not to, that he says his favourite band is Queen but his real favourite is Spandau Ballet. And also that he doesn’t speak about his father.

He didn’t notice right away, how often do grown men talk about their fathers anyway? But it’s obvious eventually, the way Martín skirts around questions about his childhood, how he never gets phone calls on his birthday.

One day Andrés had asked him whether his parents were dead.

“My mother is,” Martín had said curtly and that was it. They never spoke of it again.

So when at dinner one night about six weeks before the heist, Bogota starts talking about his kids and lecturing Denver on fatherhood, Andrés isn’t surprised that Martín doesn’t join in the general laughter and ribbing.

“Cincinnati is lucky to have you as a father, Denver,” Raquel says. “At least you’re around.”

“Hey,” Bogota says. “Just cause I’m not around, doesn’t mean I’m not a good father.”

Nairobi snorts. “You’re not a father, if you’re not around.”

“Hey, Denver could be worse,” Tokyo says and Andrés isn’t really sure if she means that or not.

Nairobi laughs. “He was literally just talking about leaving Cincinnati at farmers’ market. How could he be worse?”

“He could beat him,” Marseille says before lapsing into silence again.

Everyone sort of stares at him awkwardly before Helsinki says: “Please, Denver couldn’t hurt a fly,” and the general conversation starts up again.

Andrés is the only one who really notices when Martín excuses himself from the table, tension radiating off him almost cartoonishly.

Sergio glances at Andrés from across the table, brows drawing together in a concerned frown. Andrés shrugs and puts his wine down, pushing his chair back to find Martín.

He goes to their room first, but finds it empty. He loves the monastery, but its size can be frustrating at times, which is why by the time he finds Martín – out smoking behind the abbot’s private herb garden – he’s distinctly displeased.

Martín is perched on a stack of soil bags, sleeves rolled up, feet propped up on an upturned flowerpot. It’s just starting to get dark and the smoke he breathes out into the evening air hangs about his head like a storm cloud, a tangible representation of his mood.

He doesn’t look up when Andrés picks his way through the overflowing beds towards him, instead keeping his head bowed over his hands.

As loathe as Andrés is to dirty his lavender suit, the bags of soil look relatively clean and dry, and besides, what is a single suit compared to Martín. He carefully lowers himself onto the spot next to Martín, crossing his ankles elegantly.

“Have you finally given up pretending that you don’t smoke then?” Andrés asks, keeping his tone light.

Martín sucks in another lungful of smoke and Andrés admires how the motion hollows his face, throwing his cheekbones into stark relief.

“I always knew,” Andrés continues. “You still taste like an ashtray even if you brush your teeth after. Where are you even getting them?”

The corner of Martín’s mouth twitches. “One of the monks hooks me up.”

Andrés laughs. “You convinced a monk to buy you cigarettes?” Martín nods. “Well, colour me impressed. What do you give him in return?”

Andrés feels a flash of jealousy, when Martín smirks. “I give him calculus lessons. He’s trying to get his high school diploma, he dropped out before he joined the order and he wants to catch up.”

“Oh,” Andrés says. “That’s not what I thought.”

“I know what you thought,” Martín scoffs, though it doesn’t sound as harsh as it might have before their reconciliation. “But really Andrés, even I wouldn’t seduce a monk for cigarettes.”

“You might,” Andrés says jokingly.

Martín exhales smoke right into Andrés’ face, making him cough. “True, but when would I possibly have time for that, when I’m too busy seducing you all night long, mi amor?”

“For shame, Martín, this is a house of God,” he teases.

“That’s not what you said last night when I put my-”

Andrés holds up a hand to cut Martín off. “Okay, enough. Point made.”

Martín laughs and it sounds genuine, if not as enthusiastic as usual. He drops his cigarette on the ground and Andrés grinds it into the dirt with the heel of his shoe.

Now that Martín’s hand is free, Andrés takes it in his own, interlacing their fingers.

“Are you alright?” he asks and Martín shrugs.

“Of course.”

“Hm, you’re more convincing when you haven’t just left the dinner table to hide and smoke, querido.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Martín protests, but he slumps sideways onto Andrés shoulder anyway.

Andrés lets go of Martín’s hand to wrap an arm around him, resting his chin on the top of his head. “Was it because of your father?” he asks and Martín tenses.

“What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.

“Well you never talk about him. You’ve spoken about your mother – at least a couple of times. But I don’t know anything about him.”

“What’s to know?” Martín mumbles and Andrés kisses his hair.

“Clearly a lot.”

“He’s just an asshole, okay?” Martín says, pulling away from Andrés to light up another smoke.

“In what way?” Andrés questions.

“In every way,” Martín says around the cigarette dangling from his lips. “He never liked me, okay? I was too small, too good at maths, too uninterested in women… let’s just leave it at that, alright?”

Andrés strokes Martín’s back as he hunches in on himself. “And what Marseille said… was he like that?”

“When he was drunk.”

Andrés raises his eyebrows. “How often was that?”

“Often enough.”

Andrés doesn’t say he’s sorry, he can already picture the scorn on Martín’s face if he tries. Instead he rubs circles between Martín’s shoulder blades. “It wasn’t right what he did to you.”

Martín holds his breath for so long Andrés is worried he’s going to pass out. Eventually he releases the plume of smoke. “I know that now,” he says.

Andrés gets to his feet and pulls Martín up with him. “Put that out,” he directs.

Martín frowns. “Ugh, why? What are we going to do?”

“How about we go steal the whiskey that I saw Bogota hide and get drunk on the roof?” Andrés suggests with a grin.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Martín says, a smile of his own forming on his face.

“Sure, that’s why,” Andrés says and pulls Martín in for a kiss. “Ew,” he says when they break apart. “No more smoking please, mi amor.”

Martín rolls his eyes muttering something under his breath as he puts out his cigarette. Andrés is fairly sure he hears the word ‘pissbaby’ in there somewhere but he decides to ignore it, tugging Martín back to the monastery with him.

* * *

Andrés walks into the courtyard and freezes in his tracks, unsure of what he’s seeing. Tokyo and Nairobi are seated opposite each other at the table, little bottles of nail polish scattered across the surface next to them. Nairobi is frowning in concentration as she paints Tokyo’s nails dark red.

It’s not that unusual a sight. What is unusual is that next to them, Martín is painting Stockholm’s fingernails bright blue. He works with quick, precise brush strokes as Stockholm chatters at him – something about Denver refusing to wear sun cream

“Straight men,” Martín scoffs. “They think anything less than bareknuckle fighting and chugging beer is feminine.”

“True,” Nairobi says, making Stockholm and Tokyo laugh in agreement.

“I see you’re putting your eye for detail to good use, cariño,” Andrés says, walking up to the table.

Martín looks strangely unsure, but smiles nonetheless. “Yes well, someone had to show the women how to do a manicure properly.”

Tokyo lets out an outraged gasp. “You offered to help, Palermo!”

“Yes, because you were about to stab Stockholm with the way you were brandishing that cuticle trimmer,” Martín says loudly, but there’s no actual anger in his voice.

“He’s not wrong,” Stockholm mutters and Nairobi cackles.

Andrés takes a seat next to Martín, eyeing Stockholm’s nails. He has to admit, Martín did a good job. “How do you know how to do it so well?”

“I used to do it for my mother. Anyway, I’m done now,” Martín says, screwing the cap back on the blue polish.

“Thank you,” Stockholm says with a smile. “I can do yours if you want?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Martín says hesitantly, eyes flitting nervously between Andrés and the bottles of nail polish strewn across the table top.

Andrés leans back in his chair, settling a hand on the base of Martín’s neck. “Feel free if you want, mi amor. I have nowhere to be.”

Martín nods, more to himself than to Andrés and Stockholm smiles sunnily. “Okay, just pick a colour while mine dry and then I’ll take care of yours.”

Martín studies the selection of colours while Andrés strokes the back of his neck and wonders who on earth thought it appropriate to bring this much nail polish to the preparation for a heist.

Eventually Martín grabs a dark green that Andrés can’t help but idly think will perfectly match the silk boxers Martín stole from him. Martín doesn’t say anything, but puts the bottle down in front of Stockholm with an almost defiant look.

“Good choice,” she says.

“I agree,” Andrés adds with a nod.

The corner of Martín’s mouth twitches, as he stretches his hands towards Stockholm. She gives the glass bottle a little shake and then starts on his right hand.

“The last time I painted my nails, I had my fingers broken,” Martín says under his breath, but Andrés knows from the way Stockholm drips polish onto the table and Tokyo stiffens that the others heard to.

“Yes well, I think it will look very fetching,” Andrés says lightly.

Martín laughs. “Fetching? How old are you, eighty?”

“Enough, you,” Andrés says mock angrily. “I’ll have you know I’m extremely healthy and vital for my age.”

“Oh I know,” Martín practically purrs and Tokyo fake retches.

“This is why we don’t allow men during girl time,” she says. “You make everything sexual.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Martín says with an eye-roll. “Once my nails are done we’ll leave you to your talk of dresses and lacklustre heterosexual sex.”

His comment draws further outrage from all three women this time and Andrés smiles as he watches Martín bicker with them, even as he burns with a need to hunt down every single person who ever dared lay a finger on his beloved.

“Your nails look good,” he tells Martín later when they’re sitting in bed. Martín had seemed nervous during dinner, on edge as if waiting for someone to comment. Andrés hadn’t expected anyone to, but was prepared to put his steak knife to other uses if necessary.

“You think so?” Martín asks, running his fingers through Andrés’ sparse chest hair.

Andrés grabs his hand and entwines their fingers. “I do, it’s very attractive.”

Martín’s silent for a moment. “It was my father,” he says.

Andrés tenses. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I know.”

Andrés pulls Martín closer, one arm wrapping securely around his waist.

“My mother died when I was sixteen,” Martín says quietly. “Like I said this is something I did for her. She had poor eyesight, but insisted on always having them painted her favourite colour – carmine red.” He pauses for a moment and Andrés squeezes his hip comfortingly. “It was a few months after she died... I only painted one hand. It didn’t even have anything to do with my sexuality – I knew of course, I’d known for a while, but I hadn’t come out to anyone. I just… I just wanted to feel close to her, I guess.”

“Oh, mi amor, come here,” Andrés says, hauling Martín onto his lap and planting several kisses on his cheek in quick succession. Martín sniffs a little and his eyes are wet, but he doesn’t cry.

He takes a breath, pressing his face to Andrés’ neck before continuing. “Anyway, my father saw them and he said if I wanted to act like a faggot I would have to learn what happens to faggots in the real world.” He holds up his left hand, folding in all but his first two fingers. Now that Andrés looks closely, he can see they are a little crooked. “They took a long time to heal because I couldn’t afford to have them set by a doctor. A lady who lived down the street from us did. I used to go to her house sometimes when being at home got too… volatile.”

“Is he still alive?” Andrés asks, trying to keep his voice measured.

He can feel Martín’s smile against his neck. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in twenty-six years. The day I turned eighteen I stole his watch and the money he kept for rent and used it to buy a plane ticket to Spain.”

“My brave little thief,” Andrés says and Martín kisses him, a little desperately, his hands curling just a little too tightly in Andrés’ hair.

Later, Andrés holds Martín when he cries out in his sleep, trapped in some memory-induced nightmare and contemplates taking a trip to Buenos Aires once they’ve got their gold. He’s heard that choking on your own fingers is quiet unpleasant.

* * *

“Tío Martín, I need you to help me,” Paula says, her voice demanding and Andrés grins at the fond look of exasperation on Martín’s face.

They’re lying on the beach outside Sergio’s house under a brightly coloured parasol. Martín was trying to nap with his head in Andrés’ lap and Andrés was watching Denver attempt to convince Cincinnati to put down a dead crab.

“What do you need help with, angel?” Martín asks.

Paula frowns. “Mama won’t let me swim until I’ve done my schoolwork for today and Sergio won’t help me do maths because he says I won’t learn if he does it for me.”

Martín sits up so quickly he nearly bashes his head against Andrés’ chin. “Well that won’t do, will it? Do you have your work with you?”

Paula nods, producing her workbook from behind her back. Andrés grins, his niece is ridiculously good at getting what she wants – especially since she figured out that there’s little Martín will deny her.

Martín sits cross-legged and pats the blanket next to him. Paula sits down, holding the workbook so they can both look at the page. Martín squints and there’s a twinge in Andrés’ chest as he remembers the heist, that bastard Gandia, and the glass in Martín’s eyes.

“You might need to read it out for Tío Martín, querida,” Andrés says and Paula nods, looking guilty.

She reads out the problem and Andrés enjoys watching the gears turn in Martín’s head as he follows along. He does tell Paula a lot of the answers, but in fairness he also explains how to get to them – just in case Raquel checks he says, but Andrés knows it’s really because he likes teaching her.

When they’re done, Paula flings her arms around Martín’s neck, pulling him into an enthusiastic hug.

“Thank you, Tío Martín!” she exclaims before tearing off towards the house. “I’m done, mama. Can I play now?” she yells and Andrés laughs.

Martín sighs and lies back again, settling his head in Andrés lap. “She’s a cutie,” he says and Andrés smiles, stroking his cheek.

“She loves you,” Andrés says. “I never knew you were so good with kids.”

Martín flushes. “I’m not, just good with maths.”

“You’re a liar, Martín Berrote and you know it.”

“I’m lucky you’re not a woman or you’d be all over me to get you pregnant,” Martín grumbles and Andrés pokes him in the ribs.

“Stop that, you know I don’t want kids,” Andrés says. He watches Martín’s face which, though tanned, is still marred by the little white scars caused by the glass. He has his eyes closed against the glare from the sun and his dark lashes are fanned out against his scarred skin. “Do you?”, he asks hesitantly. It’s not something they’d ever really discussed and until recently Andrés had never thought Martín’s wants might differ from his.

“Do I what?” Martín mumbles, already sounding half asleep.

Andrés strokes a gentle hand over Martín’s chest. “Do you want kids?”

Martín’s eyes open and he frowns. “Not really. To be honest I always thought it would be for the best if I were never around any kids at all, let alone my own.”

“What? Why?” Andrés questions.

Martín shrugs, an impressive feat considering he’s lying down. “Well, I always thought I’d end up like my father: an angry alcoholic. And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t want to expose my children to all the ways he fucked me up – I wouldn’t want to ruin them.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, like he’s had a while to think about it and this is the inevitable conclusion.

“Martín,” Andrés says, softly, incredulously. “You know that isn’t true, right?”

Martín purses his lips, turning his head so he’s looking at the sea and away from Andrés. Andrés turns his face back towards him with gentle, but insistent fingers.

“What?” Martín sighs, sounding irritated.

Andrés keeps his chin gripped between his thumb and forefinger. “Martín listen to me, it isn’t true. You are nothing like him. You are beautiful and intelligent and brave and any child would be lucky to have you as a father,” Andrés says earnestly. “You wouldn’t ruin them. Look at Paula and how much she loves you.”

“That’s just because Sergio is terrible at teaching children basic mathematics,” Martín says obstinately, but Andrés can see the genuine concern in his eyes.

“You know that isn’t true, she loves you. So does Cincinnati – although I wish he wouldn’t show his love with mud pies quiet so often.” Martín snorts and Andrés smiles down at him. “And when it gets old enough to function like a human and not a faeces-factory, Bogota and Nairobi’s ridiculously named child will love you too.”

“Ibiza is a truly terrible name,” Martín agrees, but he’s smiling.

Andrés brushes his thumb along Martín’s collarbone. “You would be a good father, I promise. I would even make an exception to the ‘no kids rule’ I gave my previous wives for you.”

Martín scowls. “I’m not one of your wives, we’re not even married.”

“You’re right, we should probably rectify that,” Andrés muses.

“I’m going to forget you said that, because there’s no fucking way you’re proposing to me by comparing me to one of your fucking wives,” Martín growls making Andrés laugh. He hadn’t even realised that it sounded like a proposal – not that he’s averse to the idea, he had a ring made a month after they got out of the bank. “But no, I don’t want kids. I’m happy with just you and me and the rest of our family of lunatics.”

“You’re happy just being the world’s greatest uncle then?” Andrés asks.

“I’m the world’s greatest everything,” Martín declares, but then his face softens. “You’re kind to worry, mi amor, and truly, I love you for it. But I don’t need a child.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Andrés says with a grin. “Cincinnati and Ibiza have ruined enough of my linen shirts, imagine how bad our own child would be.”

“Maybe we should get a cat or something?”

“I like cats,” Andrés says.

“Of course you do, you’re practically a cat yourself” Martín says with an eye roll. “Now hush and let me go back to napping, good pillows don’t talk.

“You’re so cruel, cariño,” Andrés says, but he lies back himself, one hand idly stroking Martín’s hair, content.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts, comments, kudos, keyboard-smashes? leave them below or yell at me on tumblr ([@hefellfordean](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com)) or twitter ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo))


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